“Exactly,” said the judge. “In the afternoon. Cousin Talmar, you sent a mind-message to one of us in the tent with you, telling that person to come find you in your own tent when you were alone for the night.”
“Use the name, if you think you know it.” The high wizard coughed a little. “I won’t say whether you’re right or wrong. But it might be more convenient for you.”
Some of Torin’s newly discarded fear revived. “You sent me at least one mind-message.”
“And you shut your mind to me. Mind-messages don’t slip in beneath the listener’s awareness, Brother. And no one can mind-message another into doing something distasteful. I tried to break that simple principle often enough with you when we were saplings. Before you left us.”
“That may explain some of my childhood nightmares,” Torin remarked. “But you’ll assure us it wasn’t me?”
“It was not you, Brother,” Talmar said wearily. “If you don’t remember the principle in question, maybe you wouldn’t make a good magic-monger, after all. I don’t try to play with it any longer. Not since I turned responsible magician.”
“Did you give your messenger a counter-charm to neutralize the one in Torin’s doorcords?” asked the judge.
“No.” Talmar glanced at the storyteller. “You’ll assume that means it was a fellow-magicker.”
“No,” replied the judge. “But if it was a layperson, that person must have realized, or you must have explained, that our charms keep out only those who plan mischief. Bringing something into a tent is hardly a deed any charm would recognize as theft or mischief, no matter how much the puzzle might afterwards trouble the recipient.”
“Clever, Cousin Judge.” Talmar turned to Dilys. “Now may we ask you not to put it into your tales, Sister Storycrafter?”
“If I told stories about that sort of thing, I’d have put in such a trick long ago.”
“Well.” Talmar coughed—it seemed involuntary this time, though still undesperate—lay back and motioned for Hilshar to dab his forehead. “Yes. I saw my messenger in the afternoon and sent a mind-message. Although at that moment my plans were no more than half glimpsed. The person accepted my message, came to my tent later, agreed to do my errand in return for secrecy. And payment in moneygems. Most of my last remaining gems. I thought I’d have no further use for them, and hoped my other property would recompense my nurses. I did not need to give my messenger a counter-charm. I will not say whether because it was a fellow magicker or because I had to explain the trick of not intending mischief. I doubt I could have crafted a counter-charm last night. It’s not a commonly practiced skill. I suppose I have only confirmed what you guessed, Cousin Judge.”
“Clarified it,” said Alrathe. “And, I think, relieved your brother of a greater mental burden than you might suspect. When will you take your globe back, Cousin Wizard?”
“Tomorrow morning,” Hilshar answered for Talmar.
Talmar turned his head to look at her and shrugged slightly. “Aye. Tomorrow morning. To prevent any new sleep-robbing excitement in the high wizard’s lungs tonight.”
* * * *
Outside Talmar’s tent the three paused. Drizzle still fell, but all wore drycharms, and the toymaker and storyteller seemed uncertain whether to separate or walk together. Alrathe turned away first. The judge’s crimson tent was only steps from Talmar’s, in the opposite direction to the main fairground.
“Cousin Judge,” Torin said softly, “Talmar’s messenger was also the one who took Valdart’s pendant?”
“Most probably, I think. It seems overmuch coincidence that different individuals should stumble into the trick on the same night.”
“And it wasn’t me!”
“I think,” said Dilys, “only two people ever seriously suspected our toymaker: Valdart, and Torinel himself.”
They didn’t ask who the judge believed responsible. Such revelations were left to judges’ discretion, often kept strictly private between judge, complainant, and culprit. “Thank you, Cousin Alrathe,” said Torin. Then, taking the storycrafter’s hand, “We have time for two of Kasdan’s suppers before our evening’s work.”
“I’m not sure I want to go bck to Kasdan’s pavilion. Not until tomorrow morning, at least. That’s where I caught this limp a few hours ago, Torinel. Wine-brawling for the sake of your business.”
“The good mealcrafter will have his judgment tomorrow morning,” Alrathe said before Torin could comment. “And his moneygems as soon after that as you can pay them.”
“I intend to bring a full pouch along to the judgment,” said Dilys.
“’Prudence is the stem of mannerliness,’” Alrathe quoted one of the anonymous poets. “Meanwhile, Cousin, if you can swim through Kasdan’s supper crowd, you might find it easier to sit above your story audience afterward.”
She sighed. “And this began as such a proud little fair for me.”
“I have to climb the Scholars’ Tent platform and muddle magic feats for the first hour this evening,” said Torin. “Mother Vathilda’s schedule. Show me how to meet chuckles calmly, Dilysin.”
She joined hands with him. “Well, Brother Crafter, let’s go buy our meal, then. You can reassure Kasdan you’ll hold me back if another brawl starts to bud out, and when folk see us supping together, it may help stir up even more interested audiences for both our pavilions tonight.”
Judge Alrathe did not go to the mealseller’s tent, but supped alone that night, pondering small details.
Chapter Thirteen
Kasdan’s meal tent was crowded, but Torin and Dilys found a corner just being vacated. Kasdan glanced at them but made no audible comment.
Halfway across the tent, Ulrad sat alone, sipping some beverage. Beyond him, on the far side, Valdart and Kara were sharing a meal. Torin caught sight of them, but decided against threading his way amongst the other mealbuyers to them. Perhaps he was shy of approaching Kara for his money while Valdart looked on. He glimpsed more clearly what he and the judge had done in urging Dilys to return and buy supper from Kasdan; if her guilt was actual and Torin’s existed only in Valdart’s suspicion, still Kasdan was a mere acquaintance to her and Valdartak an old friend to the toymaker. No doubt these factors balanced.
“Maybe you could tell the adventurer that Judge Alrathe considers you innocent of taking his glittergem,” Dilys suggested.
Torin shook his head and sat facing her, admiring her apparent calm. Both sat cross-legged, and his right knee touched her left. In the cramped conditions of the meal tent, neither tried to break that contact.
Kasdan’s daughter Danys came, asked their preferences, and exchanged short, commonplace pleasantries. When she had crafted her way back between the mealbuyers, Kara approached along the path Danys had followed. Torin was hardly aware of the merchant’s coming until Dilys remarked on it.
Kara reached them, half knelt for easier conversation, and said, “How much is it I owe you, Brother Toycrafter?” She spoke as if no time had lapsed between the hour she chose her purchases and now, but Torin had to think before answering, to recall the totals he had reckoned from the storyteller’s notes, and to be sure he was not confusing Kara’s total with Ulrad’s.
“You took the statuette of Ilfting and his three porcupines, the miniature Haven-house, four pinecone-section necklaces and one set of inlaid gamepieces?”
Kara nodded. “Also an assortment of smaller toys and tokens.”
“Forty-three pebbles, one small stone, and four large.”
Kara counted them out, said she might return at fair’s end and examine his remaining stock, inquired when Dilys would climb the storytellers’ platform this evening, wished them a comfortable night, and returned to Valdart. A moment after she had left the path clear, Ulrad came trundling along to ask the toymaker what he owed.
“Fifty-six pebbles?” he repeated on hearing it. “You’re sure?”
“If you’d rather find me tomorrow and check through the list…” Torin felt overtired to attempt
comparison by memory.
Ulrad glanced around and cleared his throat. “No—no, I’m sure you’re right. You know your own business, eh? Aye, a shrewd seller. Fifty-six pebbles, two small stones, and three large, it was?” He counted them onto the floormat at a careful distance from Kara’s pile, heaved himself to his feet, wished them well almost as if it was an afterthought, and worked his way back to his place in time to take his mealplate from Kasdan, who had just brought it.
Some buyers along the path had begun to look slightly annoyed at the traffic, but now that it seemed to be over except for the mealsellers’ movements, they settled again to their food. Torin scooped most of Kara’s and Ulrad’s payments into his moneypouch. The gems that would not fit, he pocketed loose. Had such an amount of money come to him at another time, he thought, the unusual weight in pouch and pockets would have given him a special thrill; but somehow tonight it seemed another simple, necessary detail of everyday business.
“I think Kara nudged Ulrad on her way to us and again on her way back,” said Dilys, who faced the main part of the tent.
“Can you see Valdartak’s expression?”
“No.”
* * * *
Vathilda kept the Scholars’ Pavilion doorcurtains open until midnight. Torin spent only the first hour showing off his climsinesses on the platform before returning to his alcove, but he still had two buyers waiting for private demonstrations: Boken the furniture crafter and Kara’s adventurer Vittor, after the last members of the general audience departed. The rain had stopped.
Weary though he was, he went to Dilysin’s tent rather than his own, half hoping it would be dark and her doorcords knotted. It was dark, but the cords hung loose. Perhaps she had fallen asleep forgetting to tie them. If so, he would do it for her. He pulled her curtain back a little and called in very softly, “Dilysin?”
“Torinel. Come in.”
The only light inside came from her brazier. She sat on the other side of its glow, a huddled shape dark against the slightly less dark cloth walls, which were a little illumined from without, the neighboring tent’s lantern casting shadow patterns for her background. The scholars’ section of any fairground was left dark, largely for skyreaders’ convenience; but in the layfolks’ sections a thick candle or small lantern with large oil reservoir usually burned all night in front of every fourth or fifth tent, giving enough light for late walkers to find their way, though not enough to hinder sleep.
Torin went in. Dilys stood, stretched her legs, and lifted kettle to brazier. “Drink a cup of herbwater with me. Or would you rather drink cordial?” Her voice sounded marginally hoarse.
“Herbwater and cordial together?” he suggested.
“Good. Sweetblend and plum.”
They sat side by side on her bed while waiting for the water to boil.
“I hope your storytelling went better than my magic-mongering.”
“It went very well. I was surprised.” She coughed. “I don’t think it’s another sensitivity, like Talmar’s. I think it’s a chilled throat. I should have worn my drycharm all along, and I put too much strain on my throatcharm today. Convenient that the last-night magic show closes the Storytellers’ Pavilion by tomorrow evening. And I may not do my afternoon session. I won’t really need to. With the money I gathered tonight, I’ll be able to pay Kasdan’s damages without digging into my fund for this winter.” She coughed again and rewrapped her scarf around her neck. “Your turn, Torinel. Talk, or I’ll keep on, and my throat doesn’t want to.”
He had trouble deciding what to say. “A good crowd came to watch me bumble my platform show. Then I think most of them went to hear your tales.”
“Mine and Valdart’s. I followed him this evening.”
“And then they must have come back for private shows in my alcove. I’m afraid your other tellers might have been cheated of their audience.”
“We kept the fairgoers bouncing tonight, didn’t we? We could really have split them if I’d scheduled Valdart or myself first, at the same time you were platforming. I’m glad I made the fair’s whole schedule that first day.” She sighed. “Torinel, I don’t like gathering audiences because of gossip. It makes nice profits, but I don’t like it.”
“I know. It’s the difference between selling well-made toys and selling magic feats done clumsily.”
“Let’s never become hubs for gossip again. No matter how good it is for trade.”
“A beautiful plan.”
“Except it was hardly your fault this fair. But it was mine. I made a gossip-hub of myself.”
Rain started falling once more, or the kettle prepared to boil, or both.
“Gossip-hubs,” said Torin. “If it’s an accurate image. The hub stays in the middle, comparatively quiet. The wheel’s rim collects the dust and mud.”
“The hub gets splatters now and then. How many people think wheels are worth charms against dirt?” She rose to put spoonfuls of sweetblend tea and dollops of plum cordial into their cups. “Besides, the hub isn’t so quiet. It whirls around faster than the rim. The larger the wheel, the faster spins the hub. I think.”
“Did we get all this image from one of the poets?”
“Probably.” She poured boiling water, set the kettle down beneath the brazier, handed Torin his cup and sat again, cradling hers between her fingertips. “Torinel, how much have you read in ancient books?”
“Very little. Even when I was still a scholar, so many old writings seemed incomprehensible.”
“So many of them are.”
“Of course, I was very young.”
“It isn’t only a person’s age that makes them incomprehensible. In fact, sometimes I think I understood more of them when I was a sapling than I do now. False comprehension, maybe.” She shook her head.
“And then, magic-mongers and skyreaders concentrate on their own narrow paths through the archives. Judges and storycrafters read as wide a horizon as they can. You storycrafters are almost scholars, aren’t you?”
“Not all storycrafters mine old archives. So much ancient material is too ugly to be useful. Assuming it means more or less what it seems to mean. Gossip, for instance. In ancient times, there seemed to be a lot more conscious mischief in it, a lot less neighborly concern for the gossip-hubs. We’re a hub for curiosity and concern at this fair, and we don’t enjoy it, but our own shame hurts us more than our neighbors’ talk—I mean my shame, you don’t have any cause to be ashamed. But it’ll fade, and meanwhile almost everyone is still polite to us. In the old times, as nearly as I can understand, gossip could destroy people’s whole lives—actually, like rockslides or disease—and sometimes the folk who spread gossip seemed to plan such results. I think that wheel image must come from one of the earliest poets.”
“I wonder if we’ve really climbed so high. I’m thinking of Brother Elvar the music-crafter.” Torin was also thinking of Valdart, whom he had always considered so close a friend.
“Oh, Elvar. We find people like Elvar unpleasant, but… Well, you may be right. What about me, wine-brawling when I hadn’t even drunk any wine? And yet…” She flicked her memory through things she had read in the oldest writings, and found her own behavior, Elvar’s, even ’Dart’s gentle in comparison. “No, I’m not even going to tell you some of the other ancient tales I’ve puzzled out.”
“We still understand the gossip-wheel image, ancient or not.”
“But the ancients seemed to have other meanings for dust and muck. As if they thought it was somehow insulting, immoral, not simply Cel’s fertile earth made overwet or smeared out of place.” She decided to turn their conversation along another trail. “Did Merchant Kara come to your pavilion?”
“Yes. For a private display. I don’t think she was in my earlier audience for the platform show.”
“I heard she came to the Storytellers’ Tent in time to hear Kivin. She stayed to hear all my tales, then she must have gone to your pavilion.”
“That means she heard Valdart, doesn
’t it?”
“Yes.”
“And she ate supper with him.”
“Torinel,” Dilys said softly, “I think perhaps we’re gossiping now.”
“I’m thinking of Sharilys.”
“Well? Iris probably ate supper with Laderan, and you ate with me.”
“Iris is Laderan’s apprentice, and we’re old friends.”
“Kara’s a traveling merchant who may need another adventurer or two, and Valdart’s an adventurer.”
Torin sipped his sweetblend and tried to remember his brief glimpse of Valdart’s expression in the meal tent. “I was wondering what he might do if Sharys choose elsewhere tomorrow, after all.”
“Do you think she will choose elsewhere?”
“Yes. But not me.”
They sat in silence awhile, drinking their hot herbwater and cordial, memories of the afternoon floating thick around them. “But suppose she does choose you?” Dilys said at last, not really expecting that she would.
“I don’t know. I’ve made one decision at this fair. I’m not sure I’m ready to make another. Maybe it isn’t mine to make, not any longer. I truly urged her…only yesterday? I’d be rude to change now. But unkind, maybe, to keep to it.”
“I doubt that. You’re very fond of each other. You’ve been good friends for years, as long as I’ve known you myself, Torinel, all the seasons she’s been growing up. You’d climb together comfortably.”
He was silent. He had not specified who would bear the weight of his unkindness.
“But suppose she doesn’t choose you?” said Dilys.
“I seem to remember answering that this afternoon. When I offered you my toy.” He tried to smile. “A fine piece of carving, to be refused twice in two days.”
“Impulse?”
“No. Offering it to Sharys was a long, slow impulse. Offering it to you was sudden self-understanding.”
She blinked. “Torinivel. I’d marry you tonight, without any token, if—Shh!”
He listened in confusion, hearing rain and small-creature noises.
At Amberleaf Fair Page 14
